I am looking for pieces of them, for compelling evidence of their short lives, and I can't find what I'm looking for. There are times when I feel almost frantic; I want to do more, make more, give more, be more, ask more, love more. I look at what I've done and it just doesn't seem like enough. Because it isn't. It never will be.
Quilts and scrapbooks and little animal figures and drawings and carved initials and clothing and tattoos... I would have these things anyway, if my kids were here with me. Except that they're not.
Sometimes I wake up and I have to give myself a mental shake, deliver the cold reminder that I don't need to worry about rolling over and squashing Noah. He's not there to squash. So don't worry, don't worry.
He's not there.